


Last Generation

by nevtelenwriting



Series: Move Forward [2]
Category: Snowpiercer (2013)
Genre: Amputation, Babies, Character Death, Gen, I suck at tags, Loss of Parent(s), path to redemption, references child abuse, references to cannibalism, since you know he was gonna eat him, unwilling parent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-25
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2018-02-10 08:07:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2017422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nevtelenwriting/pseuds/nevtelenwriting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been several weeks since Wilford's men brought the protein blocks. What Curtis, and so many others, had to do festers like an old wound.</p><p>He refuses to go to Gilliam. And he refuses to look at <em>him</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last Generation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bereweillschmidt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bereweillschmidt/gifts).



> Alright, as I said in the first. Each part of this series will be a stand alone fic, but also chapters in a series. You don't have to read them all, or even read them in order to make sense. It just might be better if you do.

_March 2015. 87 Days since Train Departure._

He's never hated another human being as much as he hates Wilford.

He's never met someone like Gilliam, and still, he has no idea what to make of him.

But he can't face him, not since that day. God, he's never been so afraid of showing his face to another human being before.

He's _always_ been sure, scraping out his corner of the world to get by all his life. He did what he needed to survive in this hell box.

He doesn't know what that means anymore.

He does know one thing. He wants to see the life leave Wilford's eyes. If there's one thing he'll make himself survive for, it's to watch him die.

“Curtis.”

Curtis jolts and looks up to find Brandon standing in the doorway, who keeps his eyes on the protein block between his fingers rather than on Curtis. The dark block of food, if it could be called that, is just a few shades darker than his hand.

It's not the first time Curtis wonders what the repellent bars are made of. He quietly pushes the darker thoughts down.

“You, uh.” Brandon clears his throat, and takes a bite of the bar. “You doing okay?”

Curtis grimaces and curls his arms over his drawn-up knees. He picks at a loose piece of thread in his jacket. “What do you want, Brandon?”

Brandon sighs and swallows the chunk in his mouth, the silence palpable in the metallic air but Curtis waits for him to continue on his own accord.

They haven't spoken in weeks. Not since Gilliam showed them a bearable—not better, but god, definitely not worse—way to survive.

Before, Brandon was one of the men that followed him, when they were desperate to quell the agony of starvation. He met him on the train, those first few days, scared and alone and praying desperately that this was just a nightmare.

After the first few weeks, those few who knew each other flocked together in packs, keeping their own safe when they started to pick off the most likely to die next.

Now, the packs had dissolved, and Brandon leans on a discarded crutch to counter-balance his missing leg.

Curtis's arm aches, and he scratches at the bandage wrapped thinly around it.

Brandon finally speaks up, clearing his throat to drive away the unease.

“Gilliam wants to see you.” He fumbles over it anyway, the words catching on his tongue. Curtis's stomach churns.

Brandon hesitates another second, but then he turns, and walks away.

Curtis keeps scrutinizing the pile of metal rebar in front of him. They have a few cots, mostly frames fashioned from the waste gathered in the tail. Most just sleep huddled with those they still trust. Hate bubbles like acid in his mouth.

He sighs through his nose, and stamps down that hate before shoving his hat onto his head and standing up. Fine. He'll go see the old man. Fuck knows what he wants him for.

Curtis adamantly ignores how his heart thuds in his chest, skipping too many beats as he weaves through the crowds of survivors gathered around the trash and tipped-up cans used as tables. The air still smells of iron, and each of them has a protein block in their hand.

The Front-End sent the foul things a little over a week ago, three a day, every day since. The taste was repugnant and the texture was worse, but incomparable to what they ate before the blocks arrived.

When Curtis ate one of the godawful bars for the first time he threw back up the whole thing. Not from the taste, which was a miracle in itself. No; it was from the realization that he'd never have a name or a face to his meals again.

The blood stopped flowing. No one had died in that week since the blocks arrived. Most were still healing from grievous, obsolete wounds.

It's been over a month since Gilliam stopped Curtis, and gave them that better option. Most have accepted that what they endured was forced on them to survive. Most have already started trying to forget.

Curtis still feels dirty inside. No matter the justifications the survivors whispers among themselves, it still feels like a pitiful excuse built on sand.

And when Curtis walks by them, they don't move away, but they don't look him in the eye, either.

Curtis passes by David, a friend that ended up picking Curtis out of the blood when Gilliam had intervened several weeks prior. He pats Curtis once on the shoulder, strong and sure when their bodies brush in his haste to find Gilliam. David is older, calmer and was patient with Curtis those first few nights, when the darkness and cold gripped him so tight he couldn't breathe. He didn't hesitate to follow Curtis when they had no other choice.

His hand lingers on Curtis's shoulder, and while Curtis pauses, he doesn't look up. He already knows he'll find concern there, and sympathy he doesn't want. David lets his hand drop as Curtis keeps moving.

He stops outside of Gilliam's makeshift room, concealed only by cloth draped over a tent pitched with rebar. A knot sticks in his throat, making it difficult to speak when he calls out Gilliam's name.

“Come in, come in,” Gilliam replies and Curtis slides back the shabby covering to duck inside, only to freeze in his tracks.

Gilliam sits cross-legged on the floor, holding a baby— _the_ baby—upright. One wrinkled finger supports a tiny fist wrapped tight around the digit, while the other small hand clutches the wooden post of an old, disposed umbrella stem that has been fashioned to Gilliam's arm. His pudgy face is scrunched up in determination.

Curtis's stomach flips and his vision tilts with nausea. It takes everything in him not to yell his anger, or stumble out from revulsion. God, _why,_ why did he call him here? To remind him what he'd done?

“Look at him,” Gilliam laughs, guiding the child forward a few unsure, exaggerated steps. Curtis instinctively takes one step back.

“He's so strong already. He was quite weak a few weeks ago, you know.” At that, Gilliam looks over the rim of his glasses at Curtis.

Of _course_ Curtis knows, that's why he... He tears his eyes away from the child, looks to Gilliam with clenching fists.

“Why am I here?” Curtis asks, and just barely refrains from seething.

Gilliam looks back down at the infant and smiles, “He just turned one, you know. Born off train. He's the last of a generation.”

Curtis remains quiet, but closes his eyes to will away the twisting in his insides.

“Here we go.” Gilliam grunts with effort and Curtis cracks his eyes back open to see him lift the infant into his lap, who stares up at him with huge, curious eyes. He babbles something and reaches up. When Gilliam leans down, it yanks his beard, pulling a startled _“oomph!”_ from him. The infant shrieks in delight before easing back into his lap, tugging down the umbrella handle to chew.

Gilliam chuckles, and smooths down the baby's hair. He doesn't fight when the baby scrambles for some bits of paper in front of him, and starts bunching and twisting it in his little hands.

Gilliam sighs as he watches him play. “It takes a village to raise a child. But one, consistent influence to bring that child to adulthood.”

Curtis's brow creases, and he works his jaw before reiterating, “Why am I here?”

“The boy needs someone to watch over him,” Gilliam replies, “Someone who can guide him into becoming a man.”

Curtis's lip twitches, and he picks nervously at a nail. “That's you.”

Gilliam shakes his head though, an ambiguous smile tilting the corners of his mouth and Curtis is thrown.

That is, until he clarifies.

“I don't have two arms and legs to keep up or haul him out of trouble, do I?”

Curtis nearly heaves. His arm throbs and weighs down like lead against his side.

He blinks at Gilliam, and rubs the side of his head to remove whatever was clogging his ears.

“W-what?” He asks, again, and doesn't care that he stutters over it.

Instead of answering, Gilliam asks, “How _is_ your arm, by the way?”

It's agony. He can't grip with it, and wakes every morning wanting to rip it off.

He doesn't say that, though, and ignores the question.

“What are you talking about?” Curtis mutters instead.

Gilliam doesn't break his studious gaze, “You know very well.”

Curtis thinks he might be shaking. He can barely hear the rough, quiet timbre of Gilliam's voice over the piercing wails ringing in his ears. The infant rips up the paper in its hands to shreds, and Curtis imagines tearing skin.

“Ask someone else,” he states, and it's short, muffled and unsteady.

Gilliam arches his brows, “I'm asking you.”

He doesn't think he can hold Gilliam's gaze for any longer, but the only other place to look is at that babe and he _can't_ , not with how much it looks like her.

“Not me,” Curtis says, and closes his eyes, even though in the black all he sees is blood. “Find someone else.”

Gilliam spares him no sympathy.

“You killed this child's mother. You murdered here, not to survive, but in retaliation.”

Curtis flinches at the words.

“I didn't...” He tries, because that's not—he didn't _mean_ to—

Gilliam presses on, “He will never know her smile. He will never hear her voice. You _cannot_ deny what you've done.”

Curtis lowers his eyes, and glares at the cold metal floor.

He isn't denying _anything_ , fuck knows he's not. But everyone did what was necessary to survive, if the stupid bitch had just _listened, i_ f she just handed her baby over, because babies were the next to die, the hardest to keep alive because they were _weak_ , and this one wouldn't stop _crying,_ and people could always try again if...

It made sense at the time, when the desperation to survive their nightmare fueled every action. It made sense, when he slammed his knife home in her gut to get her to stop _screaming_ and punching and clawing at his face. It made sense then.

Nothing makes sense now.

“Curtis,” Gilliam prompts, quiet and patient, “Nothing justifies a murder of convenience.”

Curtis feels like he was punched in the gut. He _didn't—_ she got in the way, and he fucking _panicked_ , she wasn't supposed to fight but what else was he supposed to do? They were starving, and...

He looks up at Gilliam, his jaw clenched tight enough to make his teeth creak. The infant dozes in Gilliam's arm, supported by the crook of his undamaged elbow, and Curtis wishes he wasn't so scared to just turn around and leave. A small, stupid part of him doesn't want Gilliam to think any lesser.

Gilliam studies him with wide, unassuming eyes. “Speak.”

Curtis swallows hard, and his tongue tastes like ash, before he grits out, “I can't.”

Gilliam hums, and shifts himself into a more comfortable position. The baby stirs from the gentle motion, but resumes his nap with no consequence. Curtis doesn’t look down, keeping his eyes fixed upward on the back wall rather than on the old man's weathered face.

“What are you thinking about?” Gilliam asks and Curtis grimaces. He relaxes his hands he hadn't realized were balled up. He shakes his head and backs off a step.

“Look, I know what you're trying to do,” Curtis replies, “I get it. But I'm not...I _can't_.”

Curtis doesn't know _anything_ about children. He's never had to raise a child, and he doesn't want to be anywhere _near_ this kid, he _can't_. Not after how he heard it scream.

“Excluding when you first walked in here, you haven't looked at this boy once,” Gilliam notes, like he doesn't hear Curtis at all. He bristles up, and Gilliam nods once, like it all makes sense. “Are you angry, then?”

Curtis nearly bites his tongue off. Gilliam sighs.

"You know, anger is never what it seems." Gilliam smiles, barely a tilt on his whiskered mouth, "It’s born of pain, and sadness. Loneliness. But most often, fear."

Curtis’s hands shake, and he bites his lip, closes his eyes.

“If you continue ignoring this boy,” Gilliam continues, “Your anger will only grow, and he will spend a lifetime wondering why you hate him so.”

“I don’t—” Curtis starts, but shuts himself up.

Gilliam arches a brow, and then waves Curtis forward with his remaining hand. The infant grumbles at the jostle and sits up, rubbing its eyes with its hands.

Curtis takes another step back, and nearly trips over himself in the process.

“I'm fine—”

“Come _here_ , Curtis.” There's an edge Gilliam's tone that means it isn't a request. Curtis thinks his heart is going to pound out of his chest as he shuffles a few, unsure steps forward, unsteady on his feet just as the babe had been.

“Sit down,” Gilliam prompts, and his weak knees bend out from under him. Curtis kneels next to him.

“Now, come here,” Gilliam says, and then supports the child under his frail arms. “Hold him.”

Curtis's blood goes cold. His hair stands on end as his muscles tense to the point of pain.

“No. Gilliam, _no_.”

Gilliam holds it out though, and the baby babbles something that sounds like a question. Curtis shakes his head, staring down at the floor while he wipes sweaty palms on his pant legs. The knot in his throat is choking him.

“You won't hurt him,” Gilliam says, soft and conversational like he _hadn't_ made him scream before, like he hadn't been covered in his own mother's blood.

Curtis's eyes burn hot, and the baby squirms where it's suspended half in the air.

Reluctantly, Curtis reaches his trembling hands out, and holds it under his arms. The baby looks back at Gilliam with confusion, or maybe objection. Gilliam smiles though, almost serene so the baby doesn't fight.

“You keep holding him like that your arms will tire out,” Gilliam chuckles, and Curtis stares at the child, still at extended arms' length. The last time he was this close, he snatched him by his shirt and dragged him out her arms. The last time he'd been crying. Curtis sucks in an erratic breath, and carefully eases the baby into his lap. He wriggles into a more comfortable position and reaches out his hands. Curtis doesn't understand, furrowing his brow at him grasping at air.

“Well, go on,” Gilliam urges, when Curtis gives him a helpless look, “Lean down, he's too short to get to you.”

Curtis does, and the baby hooks his small hands around his ears, and drags him in to plant a sloppy kiss on his cheek.

Curtis stares at him. He counts the heart beats before he can breathe again.

“He likes you.” Gilliam says, soft as a whisper between them.

Wetness clouds his vision. A foreign sound shatters from deep in Curtis's chest, something that's half a gasp and a knife in his chest as tears fall unbidden from his eyes. He squeezes his eyes shut and bites back the next sob that wants to break free.

“Why are you doing this?” Curtis asks, quiet and cracking around the tightness in his throat. He forces himself to look up, to find some sort of message of persecution here.

But Gilliam only sighs, that enigmatic smile still tilting his mouth.

“Why do you think?” He asks, and Curtis swallows thickly. He blinks past the blurring lines and scrubs a hand over his face.

He stares up at Curtis with wide eyes, fidgeting in his lap. So full of energy, and curiosity, none of which he had a week ago. Curtis gently touches the tips of his fingers to his forehead, like any more pressure would break him.

“What's his name?” Curtis ends up asking instead, his voice small like the child in his arms, and Gilliam hums.

“Edgar. His mother named him Edgar.”

Curtis nods, and bites down on his lip when Edgar takes his finger in his hand and tightens his grip on it. He wishes he would break it. Instead he wiggles it back and worth, and squeals in delight. Curtis feels something in his chest crack.

“I'll do it,” he whispers, and it's almost too quiet for his own ears to pick up.

Gilliam's brow raises, though he doubts it's true surprise, “I'm sorry?”

Curtis swallows again, and releases a breath he feels like he's been holding in for ages. “I'll do it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and feedback are always greatly appreciated.


End file.
